


a broken parable

by badritual



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's first solo hunt, Don't copy to another site, Drabble, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John Winchester's Journal, No Mention of Dean's Birthday, Not Beta Read, POV John Winchester, Passing Mention of the Lesbian Nun Ghosts, happy birthday dean winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/pseuds/badritual
Summary: When Dean returns from the hunt, sooty-faced and hollow-eyed, John can tell right off the bat something isn’t right.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	a broken parable

**Author's Note:**

> since everyone's doing it...
> 
> it's kind of hard writing john's pov because he knows something isn't right but has no interest in pursuing it. anyway! fuck john winchester forever.
> 
> title from "The Book of Shame," by Morgan Nikola-Wren.

When Dean returns from the hunt, sooty-faced and hollow-eyed, John can tell right off the bat something isn’t right. 

“Lemme look at you,” he demands, slinging an arm across Dean’s chest when the kid tries to shoulder his way past him. “Salt and burn went good?”

Dean tips his chin up. His bottom lip trembles. “Everything’s fine, sir.”

John doesn’t buy it, not for a second, but he drops his arm. He’s not one to pry. He’s never been good at any of that—that _stuff_. Feelings, emotions. The boys know it, they’ve never asked for more than John can give them. 

Maybe he should feel worse about that. Mostly, he’s just grateful.

“All right, then,” he barks, moving away, back over to the dining room table where he’s got his array of weapons spread out. “Go clean yourself up. Then come back down and get dinner started. Sammy’s been bitchin’ up a storm for hours.”

Dean had been gone so long he’d started fussing with his weapons, checking his rounds, cleaning and re-cleaning his blades. Wondering if maybe he should go out after the kid himself, clean up whatever mess Dean had inevitably found himself in. 

But the kid’s back in one piece so it can’t be all that bad. 

John sits back down at the table and gazes down at his guns. 

He can sense Dean there, hovering in the periphery, near the door. He wonders why. It’s not like Dean to linger after he’s been dismissed. 

“What is it, boy,” John asks, finally turning in his seat. 

Dean hangs there in the doorway, shoulders slumped. That empty, haunted look’s still in his eyes. “Dad, I…” He trails off, fingers twitching against his thigh. 

John waits, hand resting over one of his guns, patient and still. Dean is ashen, eyes glassy. He works his jaw, parts his lips like he’s going to say something, before clamping his jaw shut.

John waits.

And waits.

Finally, Dean looks away, eyes darting almost guiltily. “It—it’s nothing, sir.”

John sighs. “Spit it out, son,” he snaps. 

“Those women, the nuns,” he says, then pulls up short. The rest of the words bubbling up in his mouth choke off, die on his lips unsaid. 

“What about ’em?” John turns back around and starts polishing the blade of his knife now, until it gleams under the dim, yellowed light. 

He can hear Dean breathing unevenly behind him. Wonders what that’s all about. Since when’s Dean ever cared about the things they kill? It’s not like they’re human. And if they were, once, they’re not anymore. 

A monster is a monster is a monster. 

“It’s nothing,” Dean spits out in a rush. 

He turns and hurries out of the room, footsteps thumping up the stairs. 

John finally looks over at the spot where Dean had been standing and stares at the empty doorway for a moment, heart caught up in his chest, twisted in an invisible grip. 

He thinks, he wonders. 

John turns back to his arsenal, pushes the tangle of thoughts out of his head, and resumes checking his weapons.


End file.
